Month: April 2013

My husband is in the Navy. Which means, to those of you that aren’t familiar, he is gone ALOT. Sometimes for 6-9 months out of the year. During those times, I have to find some way to keep controlled chaos to an acceptable level so that myself as well as the men-children don’t go insane.

What I am about to write actually happened during my husband’s 2010-2011 deployment and since Facebook decided to somehow scrap it from the “Notes” section, I have been asked by my dear friend, Katrina, to make sure that the tale is available for her continued enjoyment. So, please know that this is all a factual conversation/even that happened just, some words/quotations may be exaggerated to make up for my memory loss. And now… it begins.

I was sitting in my office one day when Evans (the oldest one) comes up and starts touching things on my desk. He just happens to find an ultrasound picture of his brother, Morgan, and is going through a human body/baby phase and is extremely interested in the photo.

Evans: “What is this?”

Me: “That is morgan’s ultrasound picture of when he was an alien.”

Evans: “AN ALIEN?!”

Me: “Yep. And alien in my tummy before he was born. All babies are aliens before they come out of their mommy’s tummies. And, when you were in my tummy did you know that you had THREE penises?”

Evans: “WHAT?!”

Me: “Yep. Three penises.”

At this point, he is more than mildly disturbed and to this day, I can still see the look of terror (or was it amazement) on his little 6 year old face.

Me: “You had three penises but, then two of them turned into legs. So, now you have one penis and two legs.”

Now, let’s fast forward about two weeks…

Evans is running throughout the house and he comes again, to the office where I am working on the computer. Completely out of breath but, excited. He is gasping but adages to get out,

This morning I happened upon a conversation between the men-children. Apparently, the one that I feel talks the most and NEVER shuts up, feels the same way about his older brother.

Evans: “And then, remember when you made that Lego man and we were using the Lego motorcycles?”

Morgan: “Evans, do you know that you gave me a headache yesterday?”

Evans: “I can’t make you have headaches. That is stupid.”

Morgan: “You talk so much that I get a headache from hearing you talk. Your voice gives me a headache. Stop talking to me.”

Evans: “After school, I think that we can do our homework and then watch t.v..”

Morgan: “Do you know that when I go to my classroom I don’t have to see you or talk to you and then I don’t get a headache from you talking so much to me? You should be quiet and not talk to me so much. Then, I won’t get a headache and I will want to talk to you more times.”

Evans: “I don’t talk that much. YOU talk too much and give me a headache.”

Morgan: “Well, I think that we should both quit talking and then my headache will go away because I don’t have to hear you talk to me. Okay?… OKAY, EVANS?”

Sounds like a gosh damn GREAT idea to me!

*Side note* They are both still running their mouths about who the smallest member of our family is. Morgan is convinced that it is now Chuck Norris and Evans has to jump in to tell him that no. The smallest member is definitely Lizzy, Rocko and Zane.

Myself, being the one that won’t have a discrepancy in this most definitive family convo pipes up with that, if we are being technical, the smallest member of this family would be Morgan’s betta fish. She is a female. Therefore, smaller than the fancy-pants, male betta that inhabits Evans room.

No mother wants to think that there is something “wrong” with their child. No mother wants to feel responsible for what that “wrong” may be. But, there comes to a point in every mother’s role that you have to accept that while that “wrong” may not be anyone’s fault, it is something that has to be addressed and handled.

When Evans was born, he was perfect in every way. Yes… I know, I know. Every mother thinks this way but, seriously. He was born with no issues, came home and slept in his crib the first night. Never cried but, when he did… you knew that something was “wrong”. Back then, “wrong” meant he might have a grumbling tummy. “Wrong” could be a dirty diaper in the middle of the night or at what seemed to be the most inopportune time imaginable. This baby that I loves so much was independent. To a fault.

He stayed with babysitters without complaint. He went to the strangers that wanted to hold him with no second thoughts or worry that I might leave. My angel was his own person.

Most everyone that is reading this will know my battle with alcoholism and how far that we have come as a family in dealing with it. I won’t elaborate anymore on it but, I used to hold tremendous guilt that whatever was “wrong” with Evans well, it must be my fault. There was no other explanation.

Kindergarten went great. He had the most amazing teacher a mother could hope for. One that praised his knowledge. Almost held him to higher standards than all the other children because well, he would meet those standards time and time again. Then, comes second grade. This seemed to be where things seemed to start going “wrong”. (There’s that word again.) Evans was placed with a teacher that I knew from other parents to be a typical, been in the classroom too long, hates kids and is just counting the days until she could collect that retirement check, corral the children and pass them on to the next teacher. Evans and she did not mesh well. He, being a very strong-willed little man and she, being a tyrant that seemed to make his life a living hell on a daily basis. Please understand, I am not claiming that my son is perfect. FAR, FAR, FAR from it! He always had his little quirks. And, it seemed that he was always getting into something. (Common sense has never been his strong suit)

Follow on to second grade. His teacher seemed so much more involved. So intrigued with this seven year old that was reading Moby Dick in it’s entirety and could keep track of several story lines at once without missing a beat. He was bored with her work so, she moved him into doing third and fourth grade curriculum. Then, as most people tend to do with my handsome, intelligent boy, she gave up on him. His attitude was just too much. He wasn’t focused. He caused disturbances in class. He was in the principal’s office at least once a week.

After Christmas break, we changed his school. He THRIVED. At first. Then, slowly, even with the AMAZING teacher that he had now, he was becoming complacent. Uninterested.

After a few months, it became increasingly clear that something was “wrong” with this scenario. (Please note, I said “wrong” with the scenario. Not with Evans.)

Fast forward to his first psychiatrist’s appointment. At the time, I never thought I would be saying those words out loud. That was it. I had sold out. I was going to a doctor for my perfect, intelligent, sensitive son.

I walked in with guns blazing. I had questions written down. I had symptoms of numerous childhood ailments written down. Hoping that this man, whom I had never met could offer some insight on what was going on with my child. I mean, I was supposed to be telling HIM about Evans. Not the other way around. I carried this child for nine months. I gave birth to this little boy. There is nothing that a total stranger could tell me about MY son. Nope. No way. Except what I feared all along. Four letters that could define a person. ADHD.

Now, with that being said, there are far worse things that I could have heard. I am grateful that ADHD is something that can be researched and dealt with. But, I didn’t want Evans medicated. That was that.

ADHD, it was. Medication, it was given. Results, they were immediate. Who can argue with that? But, with all the positives that came with finding out what was “wrong”, there came a whole other world of worries and questions.

Evans, to date, has lost so much weight that his size 12 jeans have been replaced with size 8 shorts that he was wearing in the summer of 2011. No appetite and situations where I have allowed him to eat whatever and whenever he wanted just to get something into his mouth. I have bought meal replacement bars. Given vitamins. And, I’m still not sure if what was “wrong” will ever be completely right. All I do know, is that I love my son. Even at eight years old, he is my best friend. He loves me and I love him more than I ever thought possible. He has a good heart, a strong set of morals and of right and “wrong”. He loves people. He’s a good brother. He’s smart, kind and amazing. He’s also hot headed, lazy, forgetful and a sometimes really, BAD liar.

Earlier today, I had a complete brush with what can only be described as a near averted, panic attack.

As I was sitting around, waiting on my nail salon to open this morning, the other half of the matrimonial union is scrounging around the pantry in hopes of finding something to make himself for breakfast. Then, I hear the words that send chills up my spine and cause me to yell out, “NO!”

OHOTMU: “What? I’m thinking about frying up this Spam for a sandwich.”

Me: “DON’T TOUCH THAT SPAM!”

What? No! Not the Spam that has made move after move with our family. Not the Spam that I occasionally will come across and again, check the expiration date and reminisce about my first craving for anything in pregnancy. Not the Spam that reminds me of the first time I went to Hawaii and sat in a Denny’s outside the International Market in Waikiki and almost, just almost ordered the Spam and Eggs. I mean, not that I would have eaten it anyway but, who doesn’t want to say that they sat in Waikiki and ate Spam?!

Things began to flash through my head at lightening speeds. The peeling sound of the metal top. The gelatinous mass that would inevitably be surrounding that mass of mystery meatiness. The loss of something that stands for something. No, not something… MANY things.

And with this, he takes notice of the expiration date and that it would expire next year. And I, find myself uttering words that I would have never thought of hearing myself say. At least, out loud, that is.

Me: “Well, if you are going to cook it, at least wait until I get back from getting my pedicure.”

OHOTMU: “Um, okay but, why?”

Me: “Well, duh… I need a picture of you cooking it, or opening the can. Fuck! Does it matter? Just make sure to leave at least one piece so that I can take a picture when I get back.”

OHOTMU: “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

Me: “JUST DO IT!”

And with that, he cautiously returns the can to the pantry and steps away.

I think that even though I am no longer breastfeeding Jasper, I might pick up her book. I know that on many occasions with all three boys, I have been made to feel like less of a mother for choosing formula over breast.

I was watching her on KTLA and she said something that I feel every time that I hear someone go on about how horrible formula is and that if you choose to formula feed, you must be anti-breastfeeding.

Just because I am unable to breastfeed does NOT make me anti-breast! I truly believe that breast feeding is the best thing for a baby but, ultimately, I shouldn’t be judged as less of a mother because of our family’s choice and our pediatrician’s advisement. I also, find it slightly annoying that if, in public and I mention that Jasper must be hungry, I am automatically asked BY STRANGERS whether I breastfeed or not. Then, my human nature kicks in and I feel the need to justify my feeding choice.

I don’t mind seeing a mother breastfeeding ANYWHERE. My older boys have been exposed to it with numerous friends and with myself as I attempted to BF their baby brother. There is no shame in BF. There is also no shame in taking an alternate route with formula. Jasper is THRIVING more now than during the few short weeks that he was BF.

Am I envious of mothers that ARE able to BF their babies for months and months? Yes. Envious to a fault. But, I won’t continue to apologize to do what is best for my son and our family.

Last night was my first experience with hosting a sleepover for Evans’ 8th birthday. Now, please keep in mind that I, as a general rule, dislike all children other than my spawn. So, inviting FIVE children to celebrate with an all-nighter was an outrageous expectation for myself. But, I did it! I survived!

Now, a sleepover presents somewhat of an issue when your 8 year old son’s best friend is of the woman-child persuasion and, one of his other best friends (since kindergarten) is also of the XX-chromosome variety and has two older sisters. As a mom to three BOYS, it took the most innocent of confessions from a PRE-pre teen to make me take note and dread the day when I have to go into detail over WHY co-ed sleepovers are not a normal occurrence.

I am lucky in the aspect that, as much as I dislike most kids, I can honestly say that I have a dear friend, the mom to the aforementioned three girls, and that I ADORE those mini-females. And this, readers, is where the situation gets hairy…

As I stood in the kitchen last night, and all the festivities were in full swing, Enid (name changed) wanders in and with this ever so innocent look, begins speaking in a low and rather secretive voice. (She’s normally VERY animated)

“Ms Melody?”

“Yes? What’s up?”

“You know that boy that is sitting besides Evans at the table?”

“Landon? (name changed) Yeah, he’s nice. What’s going on?”

…thus begins pure white noise and all I recall is, “I want to sleep next to him.” And, at some point a chiming in from the birthday boy’s best friend (the girl one) that she REALLY thinks that my younger son has a HUGE crush on her. Why? Because, he gave her a Valentine this year that said, “Be Mine”. Oh honey.. I wish that understanding boys were that simple but, I digress.

Now, please know that there other words verbalized previous to that statement and pretty sure after it but, this is was reverberates in my MOTHER TO THREE BOYS brain. At this point, all I could manage was a nervous “Haha”.

And, what leads me to the following… Co-ed sleepovers are the devil. Well, maybe not the devil but, close enough. And, beings that will eventually sprout lumps on their chest and hair in precarious places that are hard to shave for even the most of limber persons, are inevitable parts of my men-children’s lives that I am going to have to contend with. Never again, will I complain about the noisy ass toys they want or the lack of selection in the boys’ clothing department. Parents of daughters, you have my respect. Not that you even need it. You must have the patience of a Saint and access to an endless firearm supply for the teenage years. Carry on female beings. Carry on. Just, well… not at my house. Or around my penis bearers. Okay well, at least until you graduate college. Or later. Later is definitely better for my timeline.